Sharing Secrets
Title: Sharing Secrets
Author:
fly_casual77
Rating: FRC
Content Warning: Slight mention of alcohol. That's it.
Author's Note: Posted first on fanfiction.net under the name PatheticWhiteSlime.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything recognizable or the characters of "CSI:NY", who are owned by CBS.
Sharing Secrets
Five weeks, three days, two hours, and ten minutes after her big move to New York City, Lindsay Monroe stumbled into the locker room three floors down from the lab where she worked for the NYPD. Mentally blocking out tears, she mechanically navigated the maze to the bench in front of number 1377. The detective side of her brain registered a heavy pair of footsteps approximatly twenty to thirty feet away, but the human side said to ignore it.
While rummaging around in her bag to find her wallet, Lindsay's mental block wore down and allowed event from the day to filter in. Danny. Daniel. Once a pleasant name, associated with lion's dens, the occasional shot of whiskey after a long day of work, and her favorite cousin on her mother's side. Now it meant only snide comments, stereotypes, and the inevitable nickname - Montana.
With the wallet located and the small green Post-It Note in hand, Lindsay stared at the monster of a locker and almost sighed. In this technologically advanced day and age, you have no right to sigh at every little difficulty you face. Now when I was a young girl... Shut up, Great Aunt Mary. Please. Right to 36, left past 36 to 27, right to 15. Pull. Click. Nothing.
Memories of high school and her bonding with the school janitor because of frequent locker trouble came flooding back... in the unwanted sort of way. Banging on the locker with all the strength her five six frame could summon, she tried it again. Spin, double spin, click. Nothing. Where a loud POP should have been, a small empty click reigned supreme.
The phone brought her back from memory lane and into a new horror. The phone sang on defiently as she dumped the contents of her khaki messenger bag onto the floor and ran her fingers frantically through a few notebooks, her badge, a wallet, pictures, and a paperback for the subway. I'M A REDNECK WOMAN, I AIN'T NO HIGH CLASS BROAD... Oh, no. Ohnnnnoooo... Footsteps equals person, heavy person equals male, current location equals male New Yorker, and current location and time equals Danny. The math stumbled around in Lindsay's head as she silently cursed and opened and shut her phone as quickly as possible. Tears slipped out freely, and her only goal was to get out without seeing anyone, but goals were dashed into pieces as she heard the footsteps get louder and louder and stop just outside her line of vision because of her position on the ground on her hands and knees.
The owner of the dirty Converse, the only part of his body she could see at the moment, bent down and got some things from underneath the lockers where she couldn't reach. Lindsay sneaked a look and caught a glimpse of a dark blue sweatshirt and a head of short black hair. He gently took the bag from her frozen hands and placed the paperback and the notebook inside and helped her to her feet. Phone clutched in one hand, Post-It Note in the other, Detective Lindsay Monroe felt two feet tall next to this giant.
"Detective Flack," she said distrustfully, finally matching a name with a somewhat familiar face. She'd seen this guy hanging around with Messer, and right now, any friend of Messer was no friend of Lindsay's.
"Monroe," he countered, unsure of the reason behind the hostility he found in her voice. The dark blue Converse, regular blue jeans, and sweatshirt declaring the wearer to be the proud owner of an NYPD badge would have made him look like a high schooler if he had not been a whole eight inches taller than Lindsay. "So you like Gretchen Wilson."
"No." Way to go, Monroe. There are a million insults he could have used but didn't, and you just had to be a jerk, didn't you?
"Okay." You're such an idiot, Flack. What a lame thing to say. Okay... What is this, high school all over again?
"My friend, Carrie... she knows I hate this song, so I guess she switched it last time I saw her. And then she called me, knowing I would be at work... I'm going to kill her." Lindsay sank down on the bench and was surprised when he sat down next to her, still holding her bag carefully, as if it had a bomb in it or something. She reached over and took it for him, and smiled when he relaxed noticably without it in his hands.
"Messer did the same thing to me once. Changed my ringtone to "Toxic" and called me at a wedding. Embarrassed the heck out of me in front of my whole extended family." He noticed how she was paying attention, and continued on in a lighter tone. "Of course, I changed his to Shania Twain's "Man! I Feel Like a Woman" and called him in the middle of the annual NYPD ball. Now, that was fun."
She stopped herself from snorting at the picture in her head, and asked hopefully, "Did you get it on tape?"
"Of course. Couldn't let such a golden oppertunity get away from me, could I? I wouldn't sit too close to me, though. It was a month ago, and he still hasn't gotten me back. I'm expecting a bucket of some science experiment on my head at any moment."
"You don't trust scientists?"
"Not on my life. But I got more connections in the Department than Messer's got, so I'm already planning my next move. You want in on it?" He judged from her expression whenever he mentioned Messer that she would be more than willing to do whatever it took to make him miserable, so Flack was surprised when she shook her head. "How are you holding up here in New York?"
"You're the first person to ask me that, you know?" she said somewhat spitefully.
"Even Stella?"
"Besides Stella. She's just naturally nice, it's in her personality."
"So you think New Yorkers generally aren't nice?"
"No, I didn't mean that. I hardly know any New Yorkers, so it's kind of hard for me to say something like that quite yet."
Lindsay backtracked as quickly as possible, and was still talking when he cut in with a smile and, "Hey, I'm offended. You still haven't answered my question. How are you holding up?"
"Can I tell you a secret?" She flushed when she realized how stupid that sounded, and started backtracking again. "No, what a third grade thing to say. Never mind."
"If you tell me a secret, I'll tell you a secret." He said it so lightly she thought he was making fun of her until he finished. "Seriously, you gotta tell somebody, and I can guarrantee you don't want to talk to the department shrink. He smells like tuna."
"Tuna?" she said, crinkling up her nose and tilting her head to the side. "Gross. Okay, I just kind of feel like a traitor to my family. I like New York way better than I liked Montana. That's my big secret." Lindsay stood up and started working on her locker again.
"Hey! You don't want to hear my secret? I kinda relates to yours."
"Shoot." Flack saw that Lindsay was having trouble with her locker so he got up, glanced at the combo on the Post-It, and with a few twists of the fingers and a hand chop a few inches above where hers had been, the lock gave a jubilant POP and sprang open.
"Well, when the year before I was in fourth grade, I went to stay with my cousins in Boston for the summer. And we went to a baseball game, White Sox Red Sox."
"So?"
"I... kind of... in my head...rootedfortheRedSox." Flack said quickly, and ducked his head waiting for her reaction.
Lindsay laughed at his guilty expression, and said between gasps for breath, "Would you repeat that please?"
He shook his head violently and muttered, "I've only said that once out loud in my entire life, and it ain't happening again."
"So you like the Red Sox better than the Yankees?"
"I NEVER said that, don't you ever tell people that or I swear..."
"You're right, that does relate to my story."
"I'll deny it if you tell anybody I said that."
"I thought police were honest?"
"We are. Just not about things that could get us murdered in our beds."
"So I hear they got great hot dogs at Fenway. Is that right, Flack?"
"Would you quit it! I never said they were better than here..." They walked together towards the exit, Lindsay's tears forgotten. Oh, yeah. Flack was good.
Author:
fly_casual77
Rating: FRC
Content Warning: Slight mention of alcohol. That's it.
Author's Note: Posted first on fanfiction.net under the name PatheticWhiteSlime.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything recognizable or the characters of "CSI:NY", who are owned by CBS.
Sharing Secrets
Five weeks, three days, two hours, and ten minutes after her big move to New York City, Lindsay Monroe stumbled into the locker room three floors down from the lab where she worked for the NYPD. Mentally blocking out tears, she mechanically navigated the maze to the bench in front of number 1377. The detective side of her brain registered a heavy pair of footsteps approximatly twenty to thirty feet away, but the human side said to ignore it.
While rummaging around in her bag to find her wallet, Lindsay's mental block wore down and allowed event from the day to filter in. Danny. Daniel. Once a pleasant name, associated with lion's dens, the occasional shot of whiskey after a long day of work, and her favorite cousin on her mother's side. Now it meant only snide comments, stereotypes, and the inevitable nickname - Montana.
With the wallet located and the small green Post-It Note in hand, Lindsay stared at the monster of a locker and almost sighed. In this technologically advanced day and age, you have no right to sigh at every little difficulty you face. Now when I was a young girl... Shut up, Great Aunt Mary. Please. Right to 36, left past 36 to 27, right to 15. Pull. Click. Nothing.
Memories of high school and her bonding with the school janitor because of frequent locker trouble came flooding back... in the unwanted sort of way. Banging on the locker with all the strength her five six frame could summon, she tried it again. Spin, double spin, click. Nothing. Where a loud POP should have been, a small empty click reigned supreme.
The phone brought her back from memory lane and into a new horror. The phone sang on defiently as she dumped the contents of her khaki messenger bag onto the floor and ran her fingers frantically through a few notebooks, her badge, a wallet, pictures, and a paperback for the subway. I'M A REDNECK WOMAN, I AIN'T NO HIGH CLASS BROAD... Oh, no. Ohnnnnoooo... Footsteps equals person, heavy person equals male, current location equals male New Yorker, and current location and time equals Danny. The math stumbled around in Lindsay's head as she silently cursed and opened and shut her phone as quickly as possible. Tears slipped out freely, and her only goal was to get out without seeing anyone, but goals were dashed into pieces as she heard the footsteps get louder and louder and stop just outside her line of vision because of her position on the ground on her hands and knees.
The owner of the dirty Converse, the only part of his body she could see at the moment, bent down and got some things from underneath the lockers where she couldn't reach. Lindsay sneaked a look and caught a glimpse of a dark blue sweatshirt and a head of short black hair. He gently took the bag from her frozen hands and placed the paperback and the notebook inside and helped her to her feet. Phone clutched in one hand, Post-It Note in the other, Detective Lindsay Monroe felt two feet tall next to this giant.
"Detective Flack," she said distrustfully, finally matching a name with a somewhat familiar face. She'd seen this guy hanging around with Messer, and right now, any friend of Messer was no friend of Lindsay's.
"Monroe," he countered, unsure of the reason behind the hostility he found in her voice. The dark blue Converse, regular blue jeans, and sweatshirt declaring the wearer to be the proud owner of an NYPD badge would have made him look like a high schooler if he had not been a whole eight inches taller than Lindsay. "So you like Gretchen Wilson."
"No." Way to go, Monroe. There are a million insults he could have used but didn't, and you just had to be a jerk, didn't you?
"Okay." You're such an idiot, Flack. What a lame thing to say. Okay... What is this, high school all over again?
"My friend, Carrie... she knows I hate this song, so I guess she switched it last time I saw her. And then she called me, knowing I would be at work... I'm going to kill her." Lindsay sank down on the bench and was surprised when he sat down next to her, still holding her bag carefully, as if it had a bomb in it or something. She reached over and took it for him, and smiled when he relaxed noticably without it in his hands.
"Messer did the same thing to me once. Changed my ringtone to "Toxic" and called me at a wedding. Embarrassed the heck out of me in front of my whole extended family." He noticed how she was paying attention, and continued on in a lighter tone. "Of course, I changed his to Shania Twain's "Man! I Feel Like a Woman" and called him in the middle of the annual NYPD ball. Now, that was fun."
She stopped herself from snorting at the picture in her head, and asked hopefully, "Did you get it on tape?"
"Of course. Couldn't let such a golden oppertunity get away from me, could I? I wouldn't sit too close to me, though. It was a month ago, and he still hasn't gotten me back. I'm expecting a bucket of some science experiment on my head at any moment."
"You don't trust scientists?"
"Not on my life. But I got more connections in the Department than Messer's got, so I'm already planning my next move. You want in on it?" He judged from her expression whenever he mentioned Messer that she would be more than willing to do whatever it took to make him miserable, so Flack was surprised when she shook her head. "How are you holding up here in New York?"
"You're the first person to ask me that, you know?" she said somewhat spitefully.
"Even Stella?"
"Besides Stella. She's just naturally nice, it's in her personality."
"So you think New Yorkers generally aren't nice?"
"No, I didn't mean that. I hardly know any New Yorkers, so it's kind of hard for me to say something like that quite yet."
Lindsay backtracked as quickly as possible, and was still talking when he cut in with a smile and, "Hey, I'm offended. You still haven't answered my question. How are you holding up?"
"Can I tell you a secret?" She flushed when she realized how stupid that sounded, and started backtracking again. "No, what a third grade thing to say. Never mind."
"If you tell me a secret, I'll tell you a secret." He said it so lightly she thought he was making fun of her until he finished. "Seriously, you gotta tell somebody, and I can guarrantee you don't want to talk to the department shrink. He smells like tuna."
"Tuna?" she said, crinkling up her nose and tilting her head to the side. "Gross. Okay, I just kind of feel like a traitor to my family. I like New York way better than I liked Montana. That's my big secret." Lindsay stood up and started working on her locker again.
"Hey! You don't want to hear my secret? I kinda relates to yours."
"Shoot." Flack saw that Lindsay was having trouble with her locker so he got up, glanced at the combo on the Post-It, and with a few twists of the fingers and a hand chop a few inches above where hers had been, the lock gave a jubilant POP and sprang open.
"Well, when the year before I was in fourth grade, I went to stay with my cousins in Boston for the summer. And we went to a baseball game, White Sox Red Sox."
"So?"
"I... kind of... in my head...rootedfortheRedSox." Flack said quickly, and ducked his head waiting for her reaction.
Lindsay laughed at his guilty expression, and said between gasps for breath, "Would you repeat that please?"
He shook his head violently and muttered, "I've only said that once out loud in my entire life, and it ain't happening again."
"So you like the Red Sox better than the Yankees?"
"I NEVER said that, don't you ever tell people that or I swear..."
"You're right, that does relate to my story."
"I'll deny it if you tell anybody I said that."
"I thought police were honest?"
"We are. Just not about things that could get us murdered in our beds."
"So I hear they got great hot dogs at Fenway. Is that right, Flack?"
"Would you quit it! I never said they were better than here..." They walked together towards the exit, Lindsay's tears forgotten. Oh, yeah. Flack was good.